Free Everything Happens as It Does by Albena Stambolova Page A

in a state of silent torpor, then tried to liven up by going out, with people who were truly trying to help him. But the house with his children and his wife in it was still there—all around him, but also inside him, and he could not reconcile these two contradictory feelings.
    When his state evolved into a conviction that someone could read his mind and did everything he himself meant to do, his brother took him to see a psychiatrist. As soon as he said that his wife had taken his place and now lived his life, the psychiatrist decided to have him admitted for treatment. The medication calmed him down and dissipated his panicky urge to search for a way out. After long months of conversation and interaction with the hospital staff and the other patients, who were disappearing one after the other, Maria’s husband learned two things: first, that it was better to be separated from his wife and children and, second, that for some inexplicable reason, inside him, a problem had engendered itself, and from now on he had to live with it.
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29.
What Will We Do with Each Other
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    The gentleman Mr. V. had grown to be inseparable from his name.Everyone called him Mr. V.; everyone was also oblivious to the fact that he sometimes wrote poetry. And he took his pursuit of poetry so seriously that he never talked to anyone about it. His wife was duly informed, of course, but she was the last person on earth to think of spreading this kind of information. She didn’t have anything against it. But until he became as good at writing poetry as he was at making money, there was no need to reveal his secret. It was simply a question of self-respect. All the same, there was a tiny problem—money was something you could count and count on, but verse? Who could tell if or when a poem was good? Madame V. was about fifty-seven or fifty-eight years old; she had the heavy build of a German and a healthy look. She inspired unspoken jealousy among her female acquaintances for a variety of reasons: she was the wife of Mr. V.; she was an artist and she managed to sell her paintings; she seemed to know everything and was invited to every party. On top of that, she was obviously under no obligation to accept every invitation. When she didn’t go, her husband did, and it had the same effect. The two of them were having a good time and seemed to be a perfect match for each other. He was sophisticated, yet timid, and she was self-assured and sociable, bursting with physical vitality.
    It was Christmas Eve and Mr. V. was in torment. Fanny was expected to come, but he knew she wouldn’t, and that was a problem. He could almost hear his soul crumpling like parchment with worry, but decided to make one last attempt. The car stopped in front of Fanny’s place and he ran up the stairs to the third floor, hoping that his legs would prove faster than his dread. The bells echoed on the other side and the door opened. A handsome dark-haired boy appeared. How strange, he looked familiar. Had he seen him somewhere? Good evening, I’d like to speak to Fanny. The boy walked away and came back to show him in. And there—wonder of wonders! In the middle of the living room shone a magnificent Christmas tree. They kept walking toward the library. And there—Mr. V. could hardly believe his eyes—the open fire was lit, and sitting in front of it was Fanny, disheveled, engaged in conversation with another boy, who looked very much like the first one. No, it wasn’t a boy, it was a girl, sitting with her back to the door. Mr. V. froze, but Fanny jumped to her feet, took his hand and pulled him down to the floor by the fire, where the first boy was already comfortably seated. No, not the first boy, the boy. After a few awkward words, Fanny introduced him to the twins and thrust a cup with a warm drink into his hand. Thank goodness, it wasn’t tea, or was only half tea—praise be to God for grog. Mr. V. pulled his legs